anchor
by SebonzaMitsuki27
Summary: Hanatarou, Momo, Toushirou. Set during the timeskip. But you say that you're doing just fine.


anchor

disclaimer: bleach is not mine.

* * *

1.

Violet irises open, before closing. Lasting for nothing more than a fleeting second, it's the first time that Hinamori Momo has awakened. And he catches it—that instant, this moment—by watching over her and taking care of her while she rests. He watches how her chest rises and falls, remembers how her eyes meet his for that painful, painful second—_hurt, afraid, panicked—_and it's gone, dullness seeping over her skin like feathers drowning in an ocean.

There's an ache in his chest, and he can't say _why_.

Yamada Hanatarou doesn't know her too well.

He knows that she is close to Kira-fukitaichou, Abarai-fukitaichou, a powerful trio, and has a widely speculated relationship with Hitsugaya-taichou.

He knows that she was even closer to Aizen; and was frowned upon when the truth was revealed, yet she maintained the idea that it was _Aizen-sama_ who was manipulated.

He knows how her temper exploded into a powerful form of grief when she saw his illusion of a corpse mangled in Seireitei, how bitterly she wept when her heart and her mind battled against each other in pursuit of truth.

But those are things stemmed from her reputation, twisted perhaps, from the gossip.

He doesn't know _her_ all that well, but he knows that she's fallen from grace because of winged words and a charming smile promising the world.

And Hanatarou worries for her, this fragile girl.

* * *

2.

Hitsugaya Toushirou is afraid to see her.

_He_ did this—in his moment of madness, charging without a thought—at whom he believed to be Aizen.

He thought that in that second—bitter, victorious, empty—that_ this is it._

He'd won.

He killed Aizen.

Against Momo's wishes.

But—

But it wasn't Aizen.

He was tricked, cruelly led to believe that he stabbed Aizen—like a fool wanting revenge, he took his chance and rushed forth, aiming for the final blow.

Piercing through the illusion, intent for the kill, he struck his goal.

He thought he succeeded, when in reality, he had failed.

Momo's bleeding heart stained his blade with red sorrow, red shock, red confusion, everything red that mourned her life seeping out.

She only asked one thing.

_Shirou, why?_

Her voice echoes again and again at the back of his mind, tortured and betrayed, dulcet tones strained with fear.

_Shirou, why?_

It becomes his resolve. Those uttered words.

He did it for her—to protect her from Aizen, to make Aizen suffer, to stop her from _hurting_—

He thought it was _Aizen._ Not her…

And in the end, he just wasn't strong enough to see through that bastard's illusions.

So, he trains and he trains, desperate for strength and to be so much more powerful than he is now.

He will protect her.

He will not her let her bleed again.

* * *

3.

It hurts to breathe. Hurts to think and talk and smile.

She wants to cry, but all her tears have been shed so long ago.

Sweating blood and tears and blemishing her robes, where Aizen stood in front of her and Shirou-chan stood behind her.

She didn't understand—

She didn't—

_He_ wouldn't—but he did.

A silent scream bursts from her mouth, suffocated by her pillow. Curling into herself, Momo hopes that no one can hear her, as her nails dig into her palms, and her hands shake against the mattress.

She has been so stupid, following her wilfully blind heart because she just couldn't bear to believe it.

As she longs to shriek and claw her eyes out and pull her hair, something dies in her.

Some naivety, some innocence that she should have lost long ago—dies completely in this moment, at her despairing nadir.

And she is never quite the same afterwards.

* * *

4.

Hinamori-kun screams sometimes. In the night, when the darkness surrounds her, and there's no one to blame but herself. She murmurs unintelligible things that Hanatarou is sure no one wants to know. If he did—if he know—he'd soothe her, regardless.

He doesn't like to see her frown, or see her eyes rimmed red, night after night, sadness holding her up in a world that crushes her.

He _never_ knew her that well. He doesn't know her that well even now. But he's always known about her smile and how pretty it could be, gleaming idealism.

She smiles, now, but with none of _that_ charm, faded into doubt; and with none of that naivety. Her smile is more of a shadow of her than anything else. Directed at no one but her stupid heart. Wistful, and tainted with heavy disdain, it's slowly becoming a permanent feature of her face.

He doesn't comment about her dreams—the words she doesn't know she says. He doesn't comment how awful she looks—a pale shell of a girl that died long before her time. Instead, Hanatarou just sits beside her, and reads to her aloud.

_Insomnia_, he told her, the first time he came, book in hand – not one of his favourites, but one he'd been meaning to read._ I_ _don't sleep so well these days_. He has no reason to—but he supposes it's out of worry for her. He wants her to get better.

_No_, she gave him that wan tilt of upward lips, that half-smile that he hates, unsuspecting of his intentions, _neither do I._

She lets him read, lets him stutter, and when the candle is about to extinguish, does she shut her eyes. She always looks more relaxed afterwards, and he hopes he's done his part, and helped. If he can do that, then it'll be enough.

Another book, another day, he grants her requests: changing from stories to histories to plays to children literature and horror stories. But they only read horror in the daylight, when they are sure that nothing can get them—and there's no one mischievous enough to scare them.

One day, when she greets him, waiting at the window and staring outside, she asks him to call her Momo.

_Momo._ He murmurs, almost aware of the tenderness in his voice. He likes the sound of it.

He catches a glance, once more: the ghost of a smile, with almost a hopeful glisten on her lips. The person she used to be: full of happiness.

It's something he wants to believe in.

* * *

5.

Matsumoto is the one to break the habit.

A slap that she hopes will snap him out of this _madness._

She is disturbingly sober and completely serious.

"Taichou!" She shakes him for good measure, tangerine hair a mess, frazzled with concern. He hates that he can't smell the alcohol on her breath. That would give him a reason to detach himself from her, mutter something like she doesn't know what she's talking about. But there's only lucidity in her eyes, when there's an absolute lack of it in his. "Can't you see? _Can you see what you're doing to yourself?_"

And he blinks.

Simply blinks.

Because he's worked, and he's trained, this is his machine routine and now her words are ring hollow in his ears.

Like ice, Hitsugaya Toushirou has become comfortably numb.

* * *

6.

She has recovered. She is healthy. She is fit and ready to leave Fourth Division.

On the outside, she is a perfect specimen.

But on the inside—

She waits, locking herself in her prison.

She does not want to leave. She does not want to talk to anyone. The outside world is too cold and cruel for her to live in.

Let her stay in this isolation, where she is free to suffer by her sins alone.

But something else yearns, flowing through her bloodstream before being crushed.

* * *

7.

"Hitsugaya-taichou." Fidgeting, Hanatarou can't quite look at the tenth taichou in the eyes. He has seen that vacant look all too often. But he brings himself to say this. For her. "Why won't you visit Momo?"

And _that_ causes a reaction, breath frozen for second. Fear clings to the white-haired youth, too old to be called 'boy', but too young to be called a man.

Hanatarou is afraid, in case Hitsugaya-taichou lashes out.

But the tension passes with a heavy exhale and Hitsugaya looks away.

"… she wouldn't want me to." Softly, he admits with sadness lingering in his eyes, more poignant than thawing ice.

"That's not true, Hitsugaya-taichou, and you know it!" Anger forces its way out for this injustice, because Hanatarou will _not_ stand for this excuse, where any other would be fine. "She would! I know—I know she _does!_ Don't you dare use her for your excuse—"

He stops suddenly, fear choking his throat.

He's gone too far. He knows he has.

And the rest of his sentence vanishes, as he stands stock still, petrified.

"_What_ do you know?" Hitsugaya's voice may be quiet, but in no manner is it weak. His _reiatsu_ increases, and Hanatarou wishes and _wishes_ that he'd just held his tongue. "About her. About me. Don't _you_ dare talk to me like you know better."

"You're right." Meekly, Hanatarou's words stutter out, apologetic, and he tries to hold onto what little courage he has. The words come out too quickly, clumsily, and he's not entirely sure what he's saying—except they _need_ to be said. Hitsugaya-taichou needs to hear them. "You're right. I'm sorry. I don't know you. I don't—I shouldn't tell you what to do. I'm part of Fourth Division, you're the Tenth Taichou. I know that. I understand. And I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean—I never mean… I mean… I know her. I know she misses you. Momo—Hinamori-kun _misses_ you. I want you to visit her. Just once. Please, Hitsugaya-taichou. Visit her."

He tries to catch his breath, and Hitsugaya-taichou catches his thoughts.

"Maybe you're right." There's a strange note to his tone, and something prickles at the back of Hanatarou's neck. He gulps. "But…"

And Hanatarou waits.

"But I can't see her, Yamada. Not until I'm strong enough."

_And when,_ disheartened, Hanatarou knows when to relent, for the time being, _when will that be?_

* * *

8.

He asks Matsumoto to take over.

He just can't do it any more.

He has to get stronger and stronger and—

* * *

9.

Momo embraces Hanatarou every time she sees him, catching his fall when she can.

It's been happening so much recently—Hanatarou-kun is her only form of contact from the outside world. And he stumbles, with a bleary look in his eye. He says he's dizzy, it's nothing, he's alright.

Momo knows that she needs him, and yet she is not so blind to the effect she has on him.

Slowly, but surely, he is wasting away.

Desperate to fix her broken self—inexorably being damaged in the process—she can see him being poisoned by her presence.

She wants to send him away, but can't bring herself to do so.

Momo's never met anyone quite as endearing—and selfishly wants to keep for herself.

But that's wrong. She can't do that.

So she lets him sleep when she thinks no one's looking, in her room. She reads him stories and hums him songs and shares her food. Here, he is hers. And she waits, wanting it to be enough, so desperately. She wants to find her salvation in him.

But he can't fix her.

And she can't fix herself.

* * *

10.

"Hey," Momo tries to smile weakly, through her tears, stroking his hair. "It's alright. It's okay."

"That's my job." He murmurs sleepily, trying to hold her hand. "I'm supposed to look after you."

"You are." She promises him, squeezing his shoulder. "I swear, Hanatarou-kun, you _are._"

He's so _tired._

But he wants to wipe those tears away, and give her something to smile properly for.

* * *

11.

"I'm sorry." Those are his first words when he sees her for the first time in eleven months. He should have visited her sooner. He should have listened. But he couldn't—and even now, he knows he's not strong enough—he knows but—"I'm so sorry, Momo."

But he wants to see her. He can't deny that any longer.

"Me too." She whispers, seconds before she's crushed against him, her arms wrapped around him. "Shirou-chan—"

She's so fragile. So delicate. He thinks she's made of porcelain and china bone and _kami;_ he wants to know what's _happened_ to make them fall apart like this.

He's so aware of everything about her.

He's missed her calling him Shirou-chan, missed telling her to _not_ call him that, but now he can't even _say_ a single word.

"Shirou-chan." Muffled against his chest, he can still hear her loud and clear. "Please—help me."

He doesn't let go of her, thinking that this might be a dream. He feels so surreal, he's unsure if this is reality anymore. The days blur by, and now it only stands still.

"Make me believe," Momo murmurs in his collar bone. She's still so soft to touch and easy to bruise, "that Aizen is to blame. That this is Aizen's fault."

Hitsugaya Toushirou closes his eyes, and she remains in his arms.

"I don't think I can do this without you."

* * *

12.

She knows that she's asking a lot. And she's being selfish. But she wants to do this.

But she can't—not without Shirou-chan and not without Hanatarou-kun either.

They've both become her lifelines.

* * *

13.

They visit Granny—all three of them: Momo and Hitsugaya-taichou give their versions of a hug to the old lady—while he stands awkwardly on the sidelines, mumbling something about that he'd gladly sweep the floors because they need a good dusting and he can't quite believe he just said that. But there's now a broom in his hand, and that's exactly what he's doing.

He hears their laughter, and tries to think of a life when Momo was younger and Hitsugaya-taichou was even smaller than he was now.

It's hard to imagine. Momo has been so silent and quiet, and Hitsugaya-taichou seems impenetrable with his gruff exterior. Truthfully, the icy taichou still scares him.

Yet it's easier to picture once the watermelons come out and the two childhood friends' squabble and the pips are used as artillery.

And he hops to his job with a start – once their Granny shoots him a meaningful look and the watermelon pips are begin aiming at _him._

* * *

14.

"I don't hate you." It's the first time she's told him this, and her guilt is pristine clear on her face. Her face looks a little harder, less naïve that the Momo that exists in his rosy coloured past. Maybe this is the first time he's acknowledged it—able to see her in a serious light. "I'm sorry; I should have told you sooner. I should have told you right away."

"…" _You didn't have to. I hated myself enough for the both of us._

"All this time… you've been carrying that burden thinking I…" She blinks, and if he squints, her violet eyes glisten. She wets her lips. "I'm sorry, Shirou-chan. I'm so sorry." Her voice catches, but she continues, nevertheless. "I _never_ hated you – not once, not for a second. I could never hate you."

"It's alright." Woodenly, he says. It's strange, he feels so distant, disconnected from everything.

"No, it's _not_ alright." Her voice rises, vehement, determined to make him _feel_ something. Make him _understand_. "I've been selfish, for so long, never once realizing… how much you suffered. Because of me." Her voice becomes barely audible, and she's trembling as she admits this. Tears have begun to fall, only a slight shimmer on her face. "It's you that should hate me."

"I can't."

"But you _should._"

He doesn't answer that. Won't.

Except he does.

"… I would never do that. Not to you."

"Then please, _please_, don't protect me." Momo tells Toushirou. "Because if you do… at this rate, if you don't forgive yourself, you'll be protecting me from myself."

"_Momo_."

She has the scar, and it will never fade. He will always be reminded of it. She will always feel its pain. That is their scar, the one they share, though it only shows on her.

How can she _not_ hate him for that?

He doesn't understand—yet he does, when looks at her, filled with compassion.

She whispers, so gently in his ear. "I forgive you."

* * *

15.

She loved Aizen.

She did.

Loved him so much it consumed her, loved him so much that it broke her, loved him so much that she lost everything because of him.

And finally—finally, she's stopped loving him.

Her love for Aizen, once a charming man with a charming veneer, has gone.

She can believe that Aizen was wrong. That he was an enemy of Soul Society. That she was manipulated because he toyed with her emotions and threw her aside when he thought her no longer useful. That she was stabbed—_twice_—because of him.

It hurts to admit, but she believes it.

She believes it now—sobbing her heart out across the shattered floor—wrapped up in their embrace.

* * *

16.

She begins to smile properly now, and Hanatarou knows that she is on the mend.

And he hugs her, soaking in her warmth, and healing her slowly.

He knows that she's going to be alright.

* * *

17.

Maybe Hitsugaya's a little bit jealous of Momo's relationship with Yamada. Just a little, mind.

There's frostiness in their interaction that he can't quite abandon, even though Momo is trying her best to persuade him to be nice to him.

_He was there for me._ She says with a blush, and not meeting his eyes.

She doesn't have to say the opposite, because both of them know that he feels guilty.

"Okay." He gives in—just this once—and will try to get to know him. For Momo. And to see more of his determination—he hasn't forgotten their first encounter. "How can I make him stop being afraid of me?"

Momo gives him a joyful smile, and he feels lighter, somehow—because _he_ did that, _he _made her smile.

"Tell him stories. He loves to hear about the mortal world."

She kisses his cheek as a sign of good luck.

… truth be told, the nervous act has worn a little thin. Hitsugaya has begun to tire of it.

So the next time he sees Yamada, he remembers something—how he helped Kurosaki Ichigo in the rescue of Kuchiki Rukia. And he knows _which_ story he can tell him.

But first—he has to make sure that the medic doesn't escape, and firmly clamps his hand around the panicked Yamada's wrist.

Slightly red faced, and shouting the words out in a voice that is probably too loud—_dammit,_ he's trying.

"Did you know Kurosaki Ichigo has a sister?"


End file.
